Satires 1.1 (Creech): Qui Fit, Maecenas

WHence comes, my Lord, this general discontent?
Why All dislike the State that Chance hath sent,
Or their own Choice procur'd? why All repent?
The weary Souldier now grown old in Wars,
With bleeding Eyes looks o're his Wounds and Scars;
Curse that E're I the trade of War began,
Ah me! the Merchant is a happy Man:
The Merchant, when the Waves and Winds are high,
Crys, happy happy Men at Arms; for why,
You fight, and streight comes Death, or joyful Victory.
The Lawyer that's disturb'd before 'tis light
By restless Clients, or that wakes all night,
Grows sick; and when He finds his rest is gone,
Crys, happy Farmers that can sleep till Noon:
The weary Client thinks the Lawyer blest,
And craves a City Life, for that's the best.
So many Instances in every state,
That mourn their own, but praise their Neighbours fate,
'Twould tire even bawling Fabius to relate.
But to be short, see I'le adjust the Thing:
Suppose some God should say I'le please you now,
You Lawyer leave the Bar and take the Plough;
You Souldier too shall be a Merchant made,
Go, Go, and follow each his proper trade:
How? what refuse? and discontented still?
And yet They may be happy if They will.
Now would not this vex Jove, and make him rage?
Hath he not reason now to scourge the Age?
And puff and swear He'd never hear again?
No, They should vow, and pray, but pray in vain:
Yet not to laugh, and let my Muse be loose,
As 'twere my whole design to be jocose,
Altho I may be grave when not morose:
And mirth commends, and makes our Precepts take,
Thus Teachers bribe their Boys with Figs and Cake
To mind their books; these Things deserve to have
A serious handling: Come now let's be grave:

The Souldier fights, the busy Tradesman cheats,
And finds a thousand tricks and choice deceits;
The heavy Plough contents the labouring Hind,
The Merchant strives with every Tide and Wind;
And all this Toyl to get vast heaps of Gold,
That They might live at Ease when they are old:
When they have gotten store for numerous years,
They may be free from Want, and from its fears:
As the Small Ant (for she instructs the Man,
And preaches Labor) gathers all she can,
"And brings it to increase her heap at home
"Against the Winter which she knows will come:
For when that comes she creeps abroad no more,
But lyes at home, and feasts upon her store.
But neither Heat, nor Cold, nor Wars restrain,
Nor Dangers fright Thee from purfuit of gain;
Only that Thou may'st be the richest Man:
What pleasure is't with busy toyl and care
To gather heaps of Gold to hide with fear,
Tho under ground scarce safe we think it there?
Why, should I spend one Cross 'twould still wast on,
'Twould all run out, and I should be undone;
Why prethee what is't good for till 'tis gone?
In thy vast Barns great stores of Corn do ly,
Yet thou canst eat perhaps no more than I:
The Slaves that bear the weighty Flasks of bread,
With small and barly Loafs are hardly fed.
They sweat 'tis true, and with the burthen groan,
But eat no more than He that carrys none:
Besides, what difference prethee is't to Me
That feed no more than Nature's Luxury,
To plough three thousand Acres or but Three?
Oh but 'tis sweet to take from Barns well stor'd;
What, if You take no more than mine afford?
Mine but half full? why dost Thou praise thine
My small one is as good as thy great store. (more?
If you would fill a Cup come tell me why,
Why not from this small Spring that runs hard by,
As well as from that yonder rowling Flood,
Since this will give enough, and quite as good?
For Hence whilst eager on their useless prey
The rapid stream whirls them and Banks away:
He that seeks but enough, is free from fear,
His Life is safe, and all his water clear:
But most are lost in a Confounded Cheat, (great
They would have more, for when their Wealth is
They think their Worth as much as their Estate:
Well then, what must we do to such a one?
Why, let him, 'tis his Will to be undone:
Since He, as the Athenian Chuff, will cry
The People hiss me, True, but what care I?
Let the poor fools hiss me where e're I come,
I bless my self to see my bags at home:
Poor wretched Tantalus, as Storys tell,
(And that's the worst, the Cursed'st Plague in Hell)
Stands up chin deep in an o're flowing Bowl,
But cannot drink one drop to save his Soul: (free?
What dost Thou laugh? and think that Thou art
Fool change the Name, the Story's told of Thee:
Thou watchest o're thy heaps, yet 'midst thy store
Thou'rt almost starv'd for Want, and still art poor:
You fear to touch as if You rob'd a Saint,
And use no more than if 'twere Gold in paint:
You only know how Wealth may be abus'd,
Not what 'tis good for, how it can be us'd;
'Twill buy Thee Bread, 'twill buy Thee Herbs, and
What ever Nature's Luxury can want: (grant
But now to watch all day, and wake all night,
Fear Thieves and Fire, and be in constant fright,
If These are Goods, if these are a delight:
I am content, Heavens grant me sleep and ease,
If These are Goods, I would be poor of These:
Ay, but suppose I should be sick; what then?
Why then the richest are the happyest men:
Then are the great advantages of Wealth,
'Twill make the Doctor ride, and bring me health:
'Twill get a Friend that may condole My pain,
And tell me that I shall do well again:
'Twill get a Nurse, a Purge, and save my Life,
And keep me well for my dear Friends and Wife:
Prethee fond fool for this ne're vex thy Head,
For she and all that know Thee wish Thee dead:
And reason good, since you your Gold prefer
To all your Friends, your Children, and to Her:
How then canst Thou expect that They should prove
So kind to Thee, when Thou deserv'st no Love?
Why, to be Covetous yet keep thy Friends,
That Chance or that indulgent Nature sends;
It is a foolish hope, absurd and vain,
As his, to teach an Ass to take the rein
And freely run a race upon the Plain.
Well, fix a bound at last to thy Estate;
And then leave off when Thou hast gotten that;
And let not, as Thou dost encrease thy store,
Thy fears rise too that Thou shalt once be poor.
Act not Uvidius, (come, the Story's short,
The tale is tragick, yet 'tis pretty sport)
A Rogue as rich as if He had a Mine,
He did not tell, but measure heaps of Coin:
And yet so close, he went as meanly clad
As any thread-bare Servant that he had;
His Shoes still clouted, and He always cry'd,
That He shou'd starve for want before he dy'd:
Him his Whore snapt, and with a lusty blow
(Well struck I'faith) she cleft the slave in Two:
What then must I spend all? No, that's as bad:
There's something betwixt staring and stark mad:
Why still to the Extreams You madly run,
For when I chide Thee for a greedy Clown,
I do not bid Thee spend, and be undone:
No, there are bounds when Nature did begin
Then fixt, and all is Good that lyes within,
And all without on either side is Sin.

But to return to that where I began,
Is none so pleas'd as the rich greedy Man?
Is none like him contented with his state,
But rather praise and crave another's sate?
When others Cows do give more milk than his
Is He not vext? doth He not pine at this?
Doth He compare himself, and doth he see
That almost all are poorer far than He?
Doth He not strive to raise his vast Estate?
Be richer now than this Man, now than that?
Yet richer still appear as He goes on,
And those He must Excel, or Nothing's done.
Just as our Racers when They run the Course,
Still keep their Eye upon the foremost Horse,
And strive to out-strip him; but never mind
The lazy distanc't Jade that lags behind:
Hence 'tis searce any thinks his state is blest,
Nor when Death calls like a contented Guest
Will rise from Life, and lay him down to rest:
But stay, enough, and lest mine seems as long
As Crispin's tedious Books, I'le hold my Tongue.